Rae
THAT NIGHT,IAM, yet again, loitering in the street in front of the building. It is a testament to my love for Sam that I am out here in front of the comedy club right now instead of at home in my vintageLion Kingpajamas, hard at work on my book nook withThe Great British Bake Offin the background. Probably thinking about all things Grant Bowman, and WTF are we doing?
There’s no way to suppress the little spark of excitement that lights me up every time I remember Grant getting all caveman and protective and then looking exactly like he was about to kiss me. I wish I could say that I wouldn’t have let him, given that he is still the enemy, but I’d be lying.
I also think constantly about what happened in the breakroom on Wednesday. At work, at home, at my sister’s. It’s absolute torture, because I know, now, what I want from a sexual encounter. I want that bossiness, the gruff orders. I want a man who tells me to use his body for my pleasure and then goes and makes me do it. I want…
No, dammit. I have got to stop thinking about it. Where’s Sam? She’s late, and I feel like an ass waiting out here.
“Hey, stranger.” I turn to see Harlow leaning in the shadowsbeside Off the Cuff, all wide shoulders, high cheekbones, and bright red lips. “Didn’t know if I’d see you back here.”
“Oh, I’m not back,” I say, though there’s a part of me that absolutely wants to be. I can’t, obviously. Grant’s rules and everything. “I’m supposed to watch improv with a friend.” If she ever shows. Ugh, whereisSam? This outing was her idea!
“You don’t seem thrilled.”
“Yeah. I don’t mind it, but…” I shrug.
Harlow grins, a single eyebrow raised. “Unlike last week’s visit, huh?”
The groan that escapes me isn’t a pretty sound, but it absolutely expresses the way I’m feeling after this past week: stretched taut, like the middle of the rope in a tug-of-war.
“You should come down.”
My snort resonates in the suddenly deserted street. “Not a good idea.”
Harlow makes a face. “Why not? I’ll swing you another trial session if the member dues are scary.”
“It’s… more complicated than that.”
I check my phone again. Sam’s thirty minutes late. No messages. No replies to my texts or calls. Coming here tonight was her idea. I’m freaked out. Seriously. Where is she?
“You know what? I’ll just take off. She’s not—”
“Just couldn’t keep away, huh?” Grant saunters up, all big shoulders and dark, edgy annoyance. “What are you doing here?”
His arrival brings the entire night to a head—lurking out on this same sidewalk, getting stood up by the one person I can usually count on, this constant simmer of worry and tension bubbling inside me because of everything that’s happened this week. So, instead of the calm, patient response I’d usually manage to dredge up, I snap. “What? You own the sidewalk?”
“I own the building, Sunny.”
“You do?” Surprised, I look at Harlow.
She nods and swings open the door with great ceremony.
Grant walks in and turns back to look at me. “Remember the rules.”
Sweet Baby Jesus, what is it about Grant telling me things that makes me feel like rebelling? I’m possessed. Wild. And not of the carefree variety. More like dangerous. Proving him wrong is something I absolutely must do. Immediately. Devastatingly.
“Rules?”
“I’m not allowed to go in.”
“Excuse me?”
“The club is off-limits to me.”
“Says who?”
“Says His Majesty.”
