When it’s closed.
When it’s open, it’s dangerous.
I stand and pace, irritation buzzing under my skin. I’ve never had a problem compartmentalizing. Work is work. Sex is sex. Women who want access to my name, my money, my time—they know the rules, even if they pretend not to.
Audra doesn’t play by those rules.
And that’s the problem.
None of the usual distractions are working anymore. The clubs. The models. The women who laugh too loud and touch too easily. I find myself cutting nights short, bored halfway through conversations I used to enjoy.
My mind drifts—uninvited—to intelligent green eyes and the way she said Sir like it was both a challenge and a dare.
A knock interrupts my thoughts, followed immediately by the door opening.
“Dude,” Mark Fuentes says, strolling in like he owns the place—which, technically, he does—“who pissed in your Wheaties this morning?”
I glance at him. “Do they even make Wheaties anymore?”
He drops into the chair across from my desk, stretching out like he’s settling in for entertainment. “No idea. But if they do, someone definitely pissed in yours. You look like you just lost a staring contest with yourself.”
I lean back and cross my arms. “Sullivan.”
Mark’s mouth curves slowly, like he’s been waiting for that answer. “You need to get laid.”
I shoot him a look. “No thanks.”
“Preferably by her,” he adds without missing a beat.
“Hard pass,” I say flatly. “She’s not my type.”
He snorts. “That’s a lie.”
“She’s frigid,” I counter. “And she hates me.”
“She’s not frigid,” Mark says, rolling his eyes. “She’s fiery. Muy caliente.”
I scoff. “You’re projecting.”
“No,” he replies. “I’m observing. Big difference.”
Before I can respond, the door opens again.
“What are we observing?” Alex Rios asks as he steps inside.
“Close the door,” I say.
He does, arching a brow as he takes the second chair. Alex is broader than Mark, quieter too—but when he speaks, it’s usually with annoying accuracy.
“Derek thinks Audra Sullivan hates him,” Mark informs him.
Alex laughs. Loud. Unrestrained. “Jesus Christ, you really are a special kind of dumbass.”
I glare. “I don’t see what’s funny.”
“Oh, it’s hilarious,” Alex says, wiping his eyes. “Because she absolutely does not hate you.”
“You don’t know that.”
