“You too.” He pointed toward Matty’s mop of reddish-orange curls. Whereas Matty wore his hair pulled back with a headband, I let my shaggy mullet fly free. For all I knew, Brock Heller slept in his signature man bun. “Millie did a good job.”
Roman arched a brow. “What, you two share a stylist?”
“Curl specialist,” Matty emphasized. “You wouldn’t get it.”
It wasn’t an insult. Roman had kept his hair clipped down to the follicles for as long as we’d known him. That applied to the rest of his body hair, too—the dude’s balls were smoother than dolphin skin.
“I know you’re all probably itching to get back to the city, but could you spare a few minutes for your favorite podcaster?”
“Sure,” I said, earning me an icy glare. “Is she here?”
I regretted the words the second they left my mouth. Not because they weren’t true—High Cheesewas in my regular rotation, but it didn’t hold a candle toMy Worst DateorScam Goddess—but because they had seemingly no effect on Brock. He didn’t laugh or smile. Hell, the guy barely blinked. Somebody might want to check his factory settings . . .
“If you want to be on the show,Johnny, all you have to do is ask.”
My heart panged when he practically growled my name. Nobody called me Johnny, not even my parents. For as long as I could remember, I had always been Tuck or Tucker, and I preferred it that way. And yet, there was something about the wayhesaid it that made me feel like I was starring in a 70s porno about a naughty schoolboy and his professor.
Minus the Tom Selleck mustache.
By all metrics, Brock Heller was a good-looking guy. Mid-thirties, well-groomed beard, slender build with broad shoulders—he looked like a goddamn Ken doll. Surfer boys with tousled hair and jewelry had never done it for me before, and yet an image of his fingers—gold rings and all—wrapped around my cock flashed across my brain.
“It’s just a few questions.”
“Shouldn’t you be in Philadelphia?” Roman asked, crossing his arms over his chest. The move accentuated his thick, tattooed biceps. I might have thought he was flirting if it were anybody else, but Roman knew better than to hit on the enemy. And Brock Heller was, without a doubt, the enemy.
Which made my attraction to him even more inconvenient.
“Ashton’s covering the All-Star game,” he answered, referencingPortlandia Press’sjunior sportswriter. “I took the week off from the paper.”
“And you decided to spend it sampling the eats and treats of the Columbia County Fair?”
“Nah, I’m not much for sugar,” Brock said flatly. “I came for the poultry show.”
And because I couldn’t help myself, I said, “Got a thing for cock, Brock?”
A muscle in his jaw flickered like a candle. It wasn’t much, but it was a reaction, nonetheless.
“Sorry, man,” Roman said. “You’ll have to count me out. I’ve got a hot date at eight, which means I only have three hours to shower, manscape, and put fresh sheets on the bed.”
Brock scoffed. Little did he know that Roman wasn’t exaggerating. In fact, as his roommate, I had it on good authority that it would take him the full three hours to get ready. The man had a rigorous grooming ritual, and we had the water bill to prove it.
“Same here.” Matty’s attention skated over a curvy brunette waiting next to the water station. “I just made plans. Sorry.”
His rosy cheeks were a clear indicator that he was anything but.
It looked like my friends were booked for the rest of the evening, which meant there was only one other option.
“Guess you’re stuck with me,Hell.”
His lips flattened into a thin line. Clearly, Brock Heller wasn’t used to being challenged, and damn if that didn’t make me feel all warm and tingly—and more than a little turned on, too. There was a sick satisfaction that came from making the confident, hot shit reporter squirm.
“Fine,” he grumbled under his breath.
“On one condition.”
My agent was already going to give me crap for doing an interview without his preapproval, so I might as well have fun with it.
Brock arched a brow. “Name it.”
