He got into the elevator. “Just open the fuckin’ door.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” The elevator dinged, and she gasped.
When the elevator doors opened, a James Bay song was streaming from her apartment and Maggie was standing in an oversized, baby blue shirt, her naked legs stretching down forever. Fuck. He wanted to drop his things, lift her in his arms, kick the door closed, and take her on the floor.
Angry face.He cleared his throat.Stick to your angry face.
He enjoyed the slight drop of her mouth and the flicker of surprise in her eyes. “My God, you’re here. You’re really here,” she whispered, her eyes darting right and left around the hallway.
He leaned on the doorframe, his gaze down on hers, their bodies no more than an inch apart. “Gonna let me in or what?”
“You don’t need an invitation.”
“Damn right I don’t.” He pushed his way inside, his arm accidentally brushing against her breasts. “Could you at least move?” He winced as he felt the jerk in his pants.
“Did someone see you come in?” She wrinkled her nose at him. “I have a reputation to keep.”
He scrunched his nose, too, as he noticed the clothes stand full of suits next to her closet. “You fear for your reputation? Or afraid someone will tell Lover Boy?”
She snickered in passing. “You want something to drink?”
“Nah.” His ass found a chair. He hung the garment bag on the back of it and set the paper stacks on his lap. She hopped and sat on the table next to him.
“Speak,” he demanded.
“You already know the answer to your question.”
“Are you for real right now? I understand if you don’t want Andrea’s help, but me? Why the hell not?”
“Because for once I wanted to do this on my own…so when I fuckin’ fail, and I have failed, no one dares blame me for it. It’s my time, my money, my dream; I’m not wasting anybody’s anything.”
“Do you really think I care if you’ve failed? I would’ve helped you again and again till you’ve made it.”
“You think I don’t know that? That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you.”
His hands balled into fists. “Don’t…” He huffed. “You’re stubborn as fuck.”
“So I’ve been told. You gonna tell me how you knew about my movie? I didn’t win anything. Not even an honorary mention. So someone must have told you.”
He just stared at her, his mouth curving in a tease.
“What the fuck? C’mon, Mike.”
“Don Robello told me,” he finally said.
She blinked. “Don Robello the producer?”
“No, the fuckin’ astronaut.”
She jumped off the table. He tried not to look when the shirt slid up to her hip. “You’re shitting me?” Her knees rested on the hardwood floor, her hands grabbing hold of his thigh.
A thousand dirty images of the things he could be doing to her and she could be doing to him in that position flashed in his head. He had to shake his head to push them away. “I had a meeting with him this morning. He heard about Mondo M, my production company, and wanted to invest in it. As we talked, he mentioned his latest indie project. Guess who he wants to direct it?”
She pointed at her chest in disbelief. He nodded, and she bounced like a nine-year-old. “No fuckin’ way.” A nine-year-old with a potty mouth.
Mike looked down to stop staring at her jiggling breasts and hardening nipples under the see-through shirt, but his gaze met her butt cheek on the way down. Oh dear God. The girl was no fan of underwear.
