"What?" I stare at him blankly. My brain is broken. He broke it.
"You said something was a stupid, childish game."
"Cootie catchers," I blurt, and then deeply, deeply regret it.
"Cootie catchers?" His brows pull together. "What the fuck is a cootie catcher?"
"A stupid, childish game."
"I'm getting that, babe." He pushes away from the doorframe, taking a step into my office. It suddenly feels a whole lot smaller than it did two minutes ago. Jesus. He's big. No wonderno one can get a puck past him. "What kind of stupid, childish game?"
"Doesn't matter," I say, waving him off. I barely fight back a sigh, relieved my brain is finally firing. "You aren't here to talk about cootie catchers. You're here to talk about representation."
He cocks his head to the side and then grins. "We'll get to that, but I'm a curious motherfucker. Since you won't tell me…" He pulls out his phone, and my soul evacuates my body. Literally flees.
I don't know why I snatch the phone out of his hands. Honestly, I don't. I just dive for it as if my life depends on stopping him, wrestling it out of his hand before he even has a chance to react.
"You stole my phone."
He should be pissed. If our roles were reversed, I'd be livid.
Instead, a deep bark of laughter booms across my office, hitting me in places that are absolutely forbidden in a professional meeting.
"I…I am so sorry," I gasp, staring at him in shock, his phone clutched in my hands. "I don't know why I did that."
"Apparently, you really don't want to discuss cootie catchers." His lips twitch as I slap the phone into his hands. "Your future was that bad, huh?"
"You…I…" I gape at him, almost certain my cheeks are red enough to be mistaken for a stop sign at this point. He knows what cootie catchers are. If the floor doesn't swallow me right now, I'm killing Ava.
"So, tell me, babe," he says, taking a step into my space, so close I smell his aftershave and laundry detergent. So close, theheat rolling off his big body sears into me. "How many kids did it say you'd end up with?"
"Three," I whisper, my mouth bone-dry.
"Three, huh?" His lips curve into a panty-melting smirk. "I can work with that."
He can…what?!
Chapter Two
Royce
Iknow I'm in trouble the second I step into Emelia Jónsson's office. I expected the pretty shark in a power suit I've heard so much about, not a goddess in a sundress and heels I'd love to feel digging into my back.
She's sexy as hell, with the biggest green eyes I've ever seen. The dress skims her ample curves, accentuating all the places where she's softest. I want to taste those places with my tongue.
Judging by the way she's staring at me like she's waiting for the floor to swallow her, I'm thinking she might not be entirely averse to the idea. Which means I was right. I'm the name that popped up on her little cootie catcher.
Interesting.
"I am not…" She tugs on her dress like she's trying to fix her armor, her cheeks so fucking pink I want to taste the heat of her blush. "We are not…" She huffs out a breath, clearly trying to put herself back together. "You're here to discuss representation, Mr. Elliot."
"Royce."
"What?"
"My name is Royce, babe. You keep calling me Mr. Elliot, and we're going to have a problem."
"We already have one," she grumbles.
