“Hell of a job selling your freshly manscaped chest for charity,” he shoots back. “Now, can you get down to the office?”
“When?”
“Right away. I’ll have Travis pick you up.”
I grimace. Travis has officially become a goddamn yo-yo. I feel bad for him. Almost as bad as I feel for myself.
There goes my coffee.
The doorbell rings.
How the hell did Travis get back so fast?
“I’ll get it,” Mrs. D. calls from the hall, fully aware I’ll use any excuse to check out the catastrophe going on in the kitchen.
“The sooner you can get here, the better,” Mark adds, his tone clipped enough that I know his request isn’t optional.
The call disconnects, and I brace myself for an encore of protests when I have to kiss the kids goodbye and head out.
If I say feel free to eat without me, would that be rude?
I make it exactly three steps down the hall before I stop cold.
“I’m looking for Evans,” a woman says.
My ears prick.
Not only do I know that voice, but my dick definitely knows that voice.
And that’s a problem.
CHAPTER 23
Harrison
Mrs. D. shrieks. “Oh, my stars. What on earth are you doing here?”
An excellent question.
One that crossed my mind, as well. Just with considerably less volume.
My feet move fast.
I see her.
Two doe eyes see me.
She’s standing in my house, carrying a white box and wearing my red-and-black plaid flannel. The one I left in the closet.
Only she’s wearing it like a dress.
Sleeves rolled to her elbows. The hem brushing her knees. Cinched at the waist with the most expensive tie I own. A gift from Mark that’s less an accessory and more a trophy.
The kind I never wear.
Ever.
Except for very specific occasions. Like Christmas at the Donovans’.
